


Down, Boy

by Elliptic_Eye



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Additional Warnings Do Apply, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bestiality, Humor, Kink, Kink Meme, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-02
Updated: 2009-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliptic_Eye/pseuds/Elliptic_Eye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Richard Feynman is not even in the same ballpark." — From the kinkmeme, for the prompt <i>Morgan/Reid - bestiality - Morgan wants to see Clooney top his baby boy</i>.  Oh, God.  I'm going to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down, Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I still can't believe I wrote this.

  
_"What,"_ Reid said flatly.

It wasn't even a question. It was more like a manner of being.

In the corner, Clooney barked and wagged his tail.

"I, um." Morgan lowered the hand he'd raised and forgotten to put down; Clooney raced forward and took the treat he held. "I was wondering if you… would, with Clooney… you know."

Reid looked between Morgan and the dog. "No. I don't know. I don't know _anything_ anymore, Morgan."

Morgan cleared his throat. "I, um," he said again. "Never mind, I was kidding."

He walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured himself three fingers of whatever came to hand, and downed half of it in a go. When he turned around, Reid was still staring at him.

"You were not kidding," Reid said, his voice climbing in volume and pitch. "You couldn't have been kidding, because it's not funny!"

Morgan stabbed a finger at him. It was a lot less authoritative than it could have been, since he was trying to do it without dropping the lifeline in his glass. "You wanted me to dress up like Richard Feynman. I went along with it."

Reid spluttered. "That's different."

"You're damn right it was different!"

"Feynman was human!"

"You worshipped my pocket protector."

"HE'S A DOG."

"You made me learn the entire proof for an equation that does something I still don't understand just so you could watch me put it up on your blackboard. And I did it. Patiently."

"How _exactly_ do you think it would work, Morgan? Have you actually considered the logistics of—wait, no, don't answer that."

"I will never be able to get a blow job without thinking about Feynman diagrams again."

"I'd just like to point out that you can't exactly put a condom on a damned dog!"

"I wore a _wig,_ Reid."

"Do you know how dogs actually have sex, Derek?"

Reid's voice had hit something like an E above high C there at the end. Morgan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck; his face burned like Rahm Emmanuel at an Alfalfa Club roast, and he had never been gladder not to have Reid's complexion in his life. "Um. Yeah, I do."

That shut him up.

In the very long silence that ensued, they at last became aware of a whimpering sound. It was Clooney. He'd gotten his head stuck in the stair railing.

Morgan sighed as he went over to free the dog. "Look, Spencer, we agreed we'd always be upfront about what we want. I'm not out to force you to do anything you don't want to do. Just forget I said anything, okay?"

And for that particular night, that was the end of it.  


* * *

  
It was two weeks later that Morgan got an email from Reid with no subject line. It was the first thing Reid had sent to his personal address since That Conversation, and they hadn't exactly been seeing a lot of each other outside of work since then, either. Morgan opened it with some apprehension. It read:

> He's not even a very intelligent dog

Eleven days later, there was another one:

> Dogs don't even like me

Morgan didn't reply to that one, either, and when a case came up the next day that took them to North Dakota, he found himself in the unaccustomed position of being grateful to a serial cannibal.

Not long after they got back, his Blackberry pinged with a third:

> Richard Feynman is not even in the same ballpark

Followed by a fourth:

> I'm sorry if I made you feel bad, but I don't think what you were talking about would even be possible without chemical assistance. And even then.

And finally:

> We need to talk about this

That last one included a time and a date. The obvious conclusion would have been that Reid wanted him to meet him then at his own apartment, but somehow Morgan knew that Reid was planning to come to him. His best guess was that Reid wanted Morgan to see Clooney barking at tinfoil while they had their chat so that it could sink in for him just how insane his request was, but Morgan was already more keenly aware of that than even Reid knew.

So, at seven-thirty on Wednesday, Morgan made it his business to be home.

As he waited, he resisted the desperate urge to drink something stronger than soda. Reid had asked to talk this through with him, and he deserved to have Morgan sober and fully present in the conversation. Relationships took two to work. If Reid could set aside his initial shock to discuss this like adults, then Morgan could, too.

At seven-forty, a key turned in the lock and set Clooney off barking. Reid appeared, shut the door, went straight to Morgan's liquor cabinet, and downed five shots of vodka in succession.

"Right, okay," he said, turning to face Morgan. "The dog thing."  


* * *

  
Morgan had shut Clooney in the kitchen ahead of time. With Reid looking across the room at him with an alcohol flush in his cheeks and a slightly deranged look in his eye, he felt like that had been a good call.

Clooney whimpered and scratched at the gate. Morgan tossed a curt "Clooney, silent!" toward the kitchen. It figured that the damned animal would decide he wanted to play happy families with Reid _now_. The kid was right about one thing, dogs didn't especially take to him.

"Reid…" He was glad that Reid was here and talking to him. He was. He _was._ "Reid, look, you have no idea how much I regret asking you for that. I don't want to lose this. You know I don't trust easily, and—no, wait, shit, that came out wrong, I'm _not_ guilting you over this—" Morgan sighed. "Reid. You mean a lot to me. I'll do anything you need us to do for you to feel comfortable again, and if that means forgetting I ever said anything, I give you my word, it'll never come up again."

Reid had his arms crossed over his front, curled slightly in on himself under what was possibly his bulkiest, most hideous cardigan. "Morgan," he said, almost gently, "you don't have to have a memory like mine for 'I'd like to watch my border collie fuck you' to be pretty much unforgettable."

Morgan winced.

"Sorry," Reid added.

There followed a silence that could most charitably have been described as extremely awkward.

"Morgan—" Reid's voice cracked; he cleared his throat. "I need to understand—to understand why. I'm _not_ saying I'll do it," he said, slightly wildly. "I need to know why no matter what. Do you know what I mean?"

Morgan knew. "Yeah. Yeah, I get you, and that's more than fair. Um."

He was saying "um" a lot lately.

Morgan shut his eyes, let his breath out, and let his head fall back against the wall. "You know I love you. You know I love you just as you are. But you're very much in your head. _Very_ in your head."

He swallowed heavily; Reid waited in silence.

"It's not like it's any surprise to anyone that you're cerebral," he said after a minute. "But it's— Sexually, you're like the least desperate guy I've ever met, okay, Reid? You're _untouchable,_ it sometimes seems like. And I just want to see you lose it all."

"But I do lose control," Reid said quickly.

"Not like that."

Another silence. Morgan made himself break it. "Sometimes I look at you, and you're beautiful, God, you're beautiful, but I want to see you come back down to earth. I don't mean I want to humiliate you or degrade you; if I wanted that, I'd have just asked if you minded licking my boots or something. But I wanted to see the animal in you. Not because I want you to be less than human. Because humans are animals."

After counting slowly to three, Morgan forced himself to open his eyes. Reid was still beside the liquor cabinet, expression unreadable. Clooney, who'd been whining softly and giving short yips throughout the conversation, finally broke out into a howl of pure longing. "Clooney, not now!" Morgan erupted, storming toward the gate furiously enough to make Clooney retreat. He buried his face in his hands for a moment. "Sorry," he said to Reid. "I'm not sure what's got into him."

"He smells me," said Reid.

"Yeah, I know, but he's not usually like this."

Reid cleared his throat. "I meant, he smells the canine estrus pheromones in my pocket."

There was a sentence you didn't hear every day.

"He smells the… in your…"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Morgan sat down. "I… don't know what to say."

Well, that was easily the most honest thing he'd ever said in his life.

"You said before that you were aware of the role of the _bulbis glandis_ in copulation," Reid said matter-of-factly, retreating into what Morgan recognized as recitation as a means of defense. "I've been wearing a plug for the last four days."

"Ah."

"I was also able to locate what I believe should be a suitable diaphragm."

"…Right."

Reid fell silent, and Morgan saw he'd turned dark, flaming red. "You want me to have sex with your dog."

"Yes."

"More specifically, you want your dog to _mount_ me."

"Yes," Morgan said helplessly.

"And you want to watch?"

"Would there be much point if I didn't?"

Reid twisted away from him and scrubbed a hand agitatedly through his hair. "All right," he said. "Then get yourself a good seat, because this is a one-time-only deal."  


* * *

  
"Okay," Morgan said, holding back a straining Clooney by the collar, "right, um, so if you're not okay with it, you can stop at any time."

"Actually, I can't," Reid said with some acerbity.

Morgan slapped himself. "Dog anatomy. Right. Knew that." He let his breath out. "Reid, are you sure—"

_"No,"_ Reid said, "I'm really not, but I'm old enough to decide to do things anyway." Reid was kneeling naked on the rug in profile to Morgan's chair, with the reading lamp shining in his hair and his arms wrapped around himself. "This probably isn't going to last that long, so please tell me you got a head start while I was in the bathroom."

Morgan cleared his throat. "Yeah, I did."

"Okay."

Reid positioned himself, awkwardly. He stared at the carpet. "Let him go."

Morgan took a deep breath and released Clooney.

Clooney raced over to a rope tug, pounced on it, raced back, and shoved it in Reid's face, tail wagging furiously.

Reid stared at him. "If you don't get rid of that right now," he said, "I will _kill_ you."

Just then Clooney seemed to catch on that Reid was the source of the smell that had attracted his attention in the first place. He dropped the tug, play forgotten, and circled Reid, sniffing madly. Reid dropped his head so his hair obscured his face, though not before Morgan saw him shut his eyes. On the fourth circle, Clooney gave a final-sounding snuffle and hopped up.

"Oh," said Morgan, as Clooney got started without preamble.

It had to be said that it wasn't as erotic a picture as his mind had somehow made it out to be. The proportions seemed off somehow. And honestly, knowing that Reid wasn't entirely on board put a damper on his own engagement.

But not enough of one, because as it hit him that he was actually seeing his most unspeakable fantasy happen right in front of him, seeing Reid, seeing his beautiful baby boy getting utterly fucked, his hand sped up of its own volition on his cock, pulling his thumb over the glans over and over again.

Clooney shifted. Reid made a soft sound and fumbled one hand up over his partial erection. Morgan's conscious mind told him that that was probably a physical response to the stimulation of his prostate and that he couldn't help it. Morgan's libido telegraphed it straight to his belly and the root of his cock.

Clooney sped up. Morgan rubbed himself as if he could match the rhythm and—

He was gone. Gone, gone, gone.

As he came down, he dimly saw Reid, stark naked, unfastening his messenger bag and hunting around inside. He brought out a long, powdered, curly wig.

"What's that?" Morgan asked, breathless.

Reid approached him with steely purpose in his eye and held it out. "Isaac Newton."

**Author's Note:**

> Kinkmeme fic. Original thread [here](http://ansera.livejournal.com/20546.html?thread=307778#t307778). Good-bye, immortal soul; it's been nice knowing you.


End file.
